Polychromatism: Part II
by J.Fontaine
Summary: One-shots #6-10 of Anya/Dimitri, from Fox's 1997 Anastasia.
1. Imagination

**WARNING: RATED "M" FOR STRONG SEXUAL THEMES!**

_That being said, if you consider yourself to be mature, enjoy :) _

_Inspired by the song _Imagination _by Jill Scott._

**6. Green**

_Imagination_

Anya can't believe the way Dimitri is touching her.

His long fingers tenderly caress her soft hairline, her shoulders, her back, her feet, and everywhere in between. Every now and then he gently kisses the delicate corners of her mouth, and all she can do is close her eyes and wish that this night never had to end.

She loves him. God, she loves him so much and so fiercely she fears that the force of it could shatter her completely.

She returns his soft kisses, aching for him in more ways than one as they tumble in the large bed in their room aboard the boat that slowly snakes its way up the Seine, past the green oaks that line the avenues and the sleeping houses nestled in the quaint neighborhoods of the City of Light.

Anya is lost and found in her new husband's arms. She can feel his love, too, right down to her toes.

There is heat and sweat and sighs and only a little pain, and she can feel past his skin into his very energy. Everywhere they touch, she can sense it, humming just below the surface.

She wishes desperately that they could stay like this forever, so tangled up in each other that neither can tell where one starts and the other begins, he breathing for her and she for him. She feels like the moon is under the sheets with them now, illuminating her whole world.

It's too much. Joyful tears seep under her closed eyelids, but Dimitri lovingly kisses them away. When he finally speaks, his words are whispered on a bed of clouds.

"Anya…"

"Yes?"

He squeezes her shoulders a little, concern creeping around the edge of his voice.

"You're shaking…are you alright?"

She nods vehemently.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No, no. I – I'm fine. Just…don't stop what you're doing."

He doesn't, and Anya finds herself wondering how stars got inside the room.


	2. Buns and Ovens

**7. Lime**

_Buns and Ovens_

At first, Anya thought she was coming down with the flu.

She'd had it a couple of times growing up in the orphanage. It was amazing that it was only a couple times actually, since there were so many snotty-nosed children the place was practically a cesspool during the winter. But whenever she got it, she could never hold down any food.

So, naturally, when she found herself feeling very sick around midnight one night in early February, she assumed the bug had caught up with her again.

"Dimitri."

"Uh-huh." He's laying on his back in their bed, shoes off, reading a book Vlad had sent him about the Russian economy.

"Get me some tea," she says, too busy fighting the nausea to be nice.

"No," he says, not looking at her.

She looks up at him sharply, already wanting to kill him. It seemed it hardly took anything these days to make her blood boil. "_No?_"

"You didn't say please, Your Grace. Even former duchesses are expected to be polite."

She relaxes a little. "Dimitri, I'm not in the mood. _Please_ get me some tea."

Dimitri glances at her sitting on the edge of the bed with her hands clenched and her eyes closed. She only asked for her "tea", which constituted only hot water and lemon, when she was feeling really bad.

"You ok?"

"No."

"Alright." He puts the book down, then slides out of bed and goes into the kitchen of their apartment. Anya climbs completely into the bed and rests her head on the headboard. She hears the clink of metal as he rummages around for the teapot.

When he finally returns, her head is pounding and she's dizzy to boot.

"Thank you."

Dimitri raises an eyebrow as he hands her the steaming cup.

"Do I need to take you to a hospital?"

"No, no. I think it's the flu."

"So I guess it would be a bad idea to kiss you, then."

She smiles in spite of herself. "Probably."

"Ok. By the way," he says, gently poking her soft belly, "how many pieces of pie did you eat yesterday?"

She swats his hand away. "Four."

"_Four?_"

"I was hungry."

He looks thoughtful. "Uh-huh."

She glares. "Go away, Dimitri."

The flu, she thinks.

That is, until the fifth night in a row on her knees with her head halfway in the toilet. When she can finally stand, she looks at her face in the mirror and finds her skin to be a faint shade of lime.

And then it hits her with debilitating clarity why she's been so tired and sick and irritable and most of all, hungry.

And, just as suddenly, she is so happy and terrified in the same moment that all she can do is gaze into her sallow reflection in the mirror with her hand over her mouth and say, "Oh, God."


	3. Knowing the Muffin Man

_I wrote this one 'cause I kinda have a thing for pancakes. Somehow, they are so romantic eaten at night, tee hee._

**8. White**

_Knowing the Muffin Man_

"What are you making?" Anya whispers in Dimitri's ear, wrapping her arms around him from behind as he stands before the stove.

"Pancakes," he says. He turns his head and kisses the tip of her nose.

"Ooooh," she replies, then looks at the grandfather clock in the corner. "But it's 10:00."

He flips a pancake over. "I know."

"As in P.M."

"So?"

"That's dinnertime in most parts of the world."

"This _is_ dinner."

"No, it's breakfast."

"It's that, too."

She steps back to let him add the hot pancake to the stack already piled on a nearby plate.

"So we're eating breakfast for dinner?"

He chuckles. "Yes, Anya. What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing. It's just a little…" - she puts three pancakes on the plate he just handed her - "…strange."

"Well, you should be used to me by now."

She shrugs. "You would think."

Dimitri catches her smiling at him several times as they stand and eat.

"What?"

She grins, then leans up to kiss him. Her lips are sweet and sticky from the syrup.

"You've got flour in your hair."


	4. Whispers in the Dark

**9. Black**

_Whispers in the Dark_

She wore black one night when they went to Vlad and Sophie's for dinner, last spring when they were in Paris visiting her grandmother.

It wasn't as if it was revealing; quite the opposite, actually. The long, fitted sleeves just barely showed her creamy shoulders and the hem fell just below her knees. It was a simple dress – understated, demure, unassuming. Everything that Anya was not.

It was almost like she was intentionally being coy by wearing it.

And that was why, Dimitri found, he couldn't keep his hands off her any longer as they lingered at the dinner table over dessert.

"Excuse me," Anya said, and headed for the bathroom.

Vlad and Sophie gave each other a knowing look when Dimitri excused himself a minute later and went off in the same direction.

Anya had been just about to close the heavy wooden door when she saw Dimitri practically skid around the corner and come toward her.

"Hey, let me in," he whispered.

She looked incredulous but stepped aside, then looked around the hallway before she closed the door.

"What are you doing? Can't you wait your turn?"

He quickly silenced her by pulling her to him and kissing her until those brilliant blue eyes fluttered closed.

"Did you honestly think I could leave you alone in that dress?"

She giggled, eyes now blazing with a fire he knew very well.

"You're being very rude, you know."

"Trust me," he whispered. He picked her up by the waist and sat her on top of the sink. "Vlad and Sophie will understand."

"Well…" She bit her lip, thinking, before she said, "Do you think you can be quick?"

"Usually I wouldn't," he replied as he nibbled on her neck, "but as these are extenuating circumstances, I'll see what I can do."

She laughed as she unbuckled his belt.


	5. When the Color Fades

_FYI: The Neva is the river in St. Petersberg, which flows past the Winter Palace._

**10. Gray**

_When the Color Fades_

It seems that it was gradually, and then suddenly. Memories of fire that blazed during the cold night were now white against a starless sky. The screams that had been so vivid were mere whispers, ghostly echoes bouncing off the dark corners of his mind. Even the terror that had gripped his heart when he pushed the young duchess and her grandmother through the wall had relinquished its hold years ago.

He was grateful. He wanted to forget.

But there was one memory in particular that Dimitri wished he could recall in vivid detail. Only one.

He could barely picture her face now, only the vague curves of her jawline and mouth, the long hair tied up in a severe bun. She'd smell like clean cotton and laundry soap whenever she'd bend down to hug him.

She had always been there, sneaking him candy when she happened to pass through the palace kitchen, finger-combing his unruly hair when he'd run up to her on short, dimpled legs in the grand halls.

Then one day, she was gone.

The others in the servant quarters had whispered in the dark that she'd thrown herself into the Neva after Dimitri's father had disappeared.

The feeling of abandonment stayed with him his whole life, hovering about his days and nights like a specter. Until Anya.

But there were times, especially lately, when he wished he could see her clearly in his mind. He would rub Anya's rounded belly, wanting so badly to be able to tell his son or daughter that their grandmother had brown eyes, or was tall and slender. But he couldn't. He could only paint the planes of her face in various shades of gray, nothing more.

One day, Dimitri knew, they'd ask about his mother. And maybe he couldn't tell them her name, or how her voice sounded in the night, but he could tell them that she loved their father. Of that, somehow, he was sure. And he could also tell them that wherever she was, she loved them, too.


End file.
